


The Early Days of Spring

by athena_crikey



Category: Gintama
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-02
Updated: 2011-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 08:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the Jyoui war. Follows Sanctuary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Early Days of Spring

Katsura Kotarou dies on the first day of spring.

Gintoki’s been waiting for it. Has seen it coming for more than a month, since a poisoned blade sliced into Zura’s side. They have no doctors, no medicine, no rest. Any injury which interferes with combat is a death sentence, regardless of the severity. Like an alley cat, Zura won’t stop fighting, so he’ll die. There’s no point arguing; he might as well tell the sun to travel backwards across the sky.

Gintoki is tired of losing people. There’s no anger left, just simple, cold, exhaustion. He sees the corpses of comrades and friends now and feels nothing but a little more empty inside.

Zura is different. Is the closest he can come to a lover without love, with just a desperate hunger to feel that he’s still alive. Is the one thing that keeps him from truly becoming the demon they call him. He has made Zura the keeper of his humanity, because he can’t trust himself with it anymore. And when Zura dies, there will be nothing left to keep.

They charge in to battle side-by-side as always, and fight back-to-back while the shadows around them shorten. Sakamoto and Takasugi are nearby; he catches glimpses of them now and then through the crowd of pink and green and yellow-skinned aliens while the sun passes overhead.

Gintoki has no real concept of time while he’s fighting; he’s been told it’s one of the factors that makes him such a dangerous opponent. Most men stop to rest, to eat, to piss. He fights until he’s the only one left on the field, or until someone drags him off. He notices the shadows beginning to lengthen again, but he doesn’t associate it with the afternoon passing.

Consequently, he can’t later say when it is exactly that the war changes. Only knows that, that afternoon, they lose it. Because the Amanto finally drag heavy artillery beam cannons out onto the field, and, protected by small arms, begin cutting down everyone who stands in their way.

Gintoki has only ever heard of beam cannons from other soldiers, but he recognizes them easily enough. No one could ever be mistaken about that amount of carnage. The beams are stopped by nothing except lack of power, and they can shoot for nearly a mile before they lose lethal force. He knows, because he watches them simply vaporize columns of samurai who never even see the light coming.

The minute the first one is fired, Gintoki knows the battle is over. Knows that they’ve lost Edo, lost the nation, lost the _world_ to the Amanto. Hundreds of thousands of samurai will never be able to defeat even a single beam cannon, no matter the strength of their arms or the sharpness of their swords.

All around him, men are running as Amanto armed with rifles and machine guns – another word Gintoki has only heard a handful of times – charge through the crowd firing at will. He cuts down five, ten, a dozen of them as they pass by, dodging bullets by the skin of his teeth, but one lone swordsman no longer means anything. He is no longer a threat. If he resists, if he fights, they can destroy the entirety of Edo in an afternoon if they care to.

They are the ants under the shoes of the Amanto.

The revelation should be crushing, soul-shattering. His culture, his race, his world are meaningless, worthless. But all he feels is a tiny, flickering glow of relief: they will live now. He won’t lose anything more to this war. Against all odds, the battles will end before every last one of them is cut down. Takasugi and Sakamoto will rage and curse and cry, but they will live. Zura, who will never give in while there is a battle to be fought, will live.

He casts his eye over the battlefield. It is already half-deserted, already being cleared both by the Amanto executing those who get in their way, and their own men carrying off such wounded as they can. In the distance, he sees Takasugi stumbling like a drunk with his face in his hands, being pulled off the field by a limping Sakamoto. The fact that they’re walking means they’ll live.

Nearer, small groups of men are collecting themselves and scuttling away carrying comrades between them, bandaging the wounded with such strips of fabric as they have and splinting with spear-shafts and sword-sheaths. Gintoki looks around for a flash of green on the brown field, expecting to see Zura helping with one of the aid-giving groups.

Instead, what catches his eye is a particularly large group forming some dozen yards from him, and the men who turn fearfully to glance back at him.

 _No._ It’s the only thought in his mind, echoing alone in the barrenness. Just the single, broken syllable. A denial of this world, this fight, this truth. _No._

His feet move on their own, sword heavy in his hand, and he crosses the battlefield without noticing a single detail. It might have been nothing more than an endless grey hall. And at the end of it a group of men squatting in a ragged circle, looking back over their shoulders.

He comes to a silent stop behind them, and they pull back to clear a path for him. They’re speaking, he can see their mouths moving, can even hear the words, but none of it means anything to him; they might as well be under water.

It’s Zura, of course. Lying on his back. Covered in blood. Eyes closed.

Dead.

For Sakata Gintoki, the war ends right here.

***

  
The sakura are just beginning to bloom. Gintoki stares up at the delicate pink buds above him, watches the play of the sunlight between the branches aimlessly.

He must have slept, but he doesn’t remember it. Just as he doesn’t remember walking into the city, or finding the small park he’s sitting in. There are other men in the park, ronin who deserted the fight, and civilians whose homes were destroyed by it. He pays no attention to them, and they avoid him.

The sun has moved through most of the branches by the time Sakamoto arrives, still limping. Gintoki notices him, but only pays him a sliver of attention when he moves to stand between Gintoki and the sun.

“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you – it’s Katsura-kun.”

Gintoki stares up at him flatly, and watches the excitement of the find drain from his face. Sakamoto continues in a quieter voice. “He’s been hurt badly, Gintoki-kun. You should come.”

Gintoki blinks, slowly. “He’s alive.” He can’t quite manage the question; the words just slip out, flat as the horizon.

Sakamoto nods. “Yes, but you should come,” he repeats. “His injuries are severe.”

Gintoki stands slowly, rocking up against the sakura tree. Some of the petals drift down, the first to fall. He watches them land on the dirty ground, then turns to follow Sakamoto.

***

  
The camp tents were probably once white, but as far as Gintoki can remember they had been a dirty shade of grey, stained with patches of brown and burgundy. The camp itself is smaller than he had ever seen, most men either dead or gone, finished one way or another by the beam cannons. There is a sole guard sitting at the entrance to the tent Sakamoto leads him to, and he’s missing an arm. He doesn’t look at them as they pass.

The inside of the small tent is thick with the stench of blood, and under it the scent of alcohol that is both the only sedative and antiseptic they have available. It’s dark, sunlight hardly filtering through the thick canvas and their candles long ago all used up; even with the door propped open the light is poor.

Zura is lying on the thin strip of woven bamboo-bark that passes for his bed; his blanket is a discarded kimono, stained dark at the hems. His eyes are still closed and his breathing is laboured, and even in the bad light Gintoki can see that his skin is too pale. He kneels down and pulls back the kimono with a stiff arm to look at the bloody bandages below. The whole situation feels surreal, feels _unreal_ , like he’s not really here. Like he’s watching himself from far away, distant, disassociated. Like Zura is still dead.

“Old Yamanishi took a look at him,” says Sakamoto from behind him, just another part of the dream. Yamanishi is the closest thing they have left to a doctor, just an old man who’s been around and seen plenty. By now, probably too much. “Said he thinks he could live, if he doesn’t have to fight.”

“He doesn’t,” says Gintoki, pulling the makeshift blanket back over him and leaning back on his heels. Hears Sakamoto shift behind him. “What?”

“Not everyone’s so sure it’s over,” he says hesitantly, and Gintoki is too ambivalent to bother considering what Sakamoto is trying to sugar-coat. “Takasugi’s gathering men right now. They don’t – they won’t give up.”

“It _is_ over. We’ve lost.”

“That’s the rational choice. But… it’s not the emotional one.”

“It’s the only one,” says Gintoki, staring down at his friend, his partner, his lover, and wondering why he doesn’t feel anything. Thinks that maybe he’s already lost too much. That maybe Zura has nothing left to safeguard for him.

“It’s not the one he’ll agree with,” says Sakamoto quietly from the corner of Gintoki's peripheral vision, nodding towards the unconscious man.

It’s true, Gintoki knows. As soon as he’s strong enough to stand, Zura will be out there again. Throwing his life away for a cause they’ve already lost.

Maybe that’s why it feels as if nothing’s changed. Because Zura is dead. Just still breathing, temporarily.

And Gintoki doesn’t have enough left of himself to watch it again. Can’t watch it again. Just. Simply. Can’t.

On the ground in front of him, Zura winces in his sleep. Gintoki watches without moving, sits still as stone while Zura’s hand twitches and Sakamoto shifts uncomfortably, until it passes. There’s no point in staying. No point in fighting. No point in trying to protect anyone.

Gintoki stands, and walks out of the camp without saying goodbye.

It’s the second day of spring, and the Shiroyasha is dead.


End file.
